


all your starlight in my throat

by Rhovanel



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Anal Sex, Control Ending, Friends With Benefits, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Renegade Shepard (Mass Effect), Rimming, Wall Sex, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-20 11:26:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19991380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhovanel/pseuds/Rhovanel
Summary: Shepard is tired of being in control. Garrus knows how to help.





	all your starlight in my throat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linndechir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/gifts).



Shepard isn’t the same after the Crucible.

Not that Garrus had expected he would be. It’s a hell of a thing, to lead an army into a battle with odds so slim you couldn’t even see them through a scope. And none of them are exactly the same, not after everything. Garrus wouldn’t go back to the person he was before the war: that naive, idealistic young officer who saw everything in black and white.

But sometimes, he wishes he could take Shepard back, back to a time when he was loose and easy in his movements, slinging an arm over the shoulders of his crew and trading casual punches in the kitchen. Now, his arms are always pinned to his sides or crossed over his chest, as tightly uncommunicative as his clenched jaw.

No one knows exactly what had happened, that day in the Citadel. A strange wave of crackling blue energy had swept across the sky, and then Shepard had limped down from the Crucible, bloody and burnt and swaying on his feet.

Garrus had been waiting for him at the bottom of the Normandy’s hangar. “What happened?” he had asked, frantically trying to find the source of all that blood. “What did you do?”

Shepard had reached up to pat his shoulder. “It’s under control,” he had said, before promptly passing out.

But Garrus watches him now, his jaw set and his eyes haunted, and he thinks that control is precisely the problem: he wears his willpower like armor, despite the fact that none of them really need armor any more.

He watches him during the celebrations, as he patiently allows Hackett to pin decoration after decoration onto his chest. He smiles and waves at the crowds, but his shoulders are squared, as though he’s still standing to attention.

He watches him in the evenings, when he spends hours in the gym. He trains until he should hardly be able to keep his eyes open, but all he does is sit quietly outside in the dark, his eyes fixed on the stars as though his gaze is the only thing keeping them aloft.

And he watches the shadows grow darker under his eyes, as though he is still fighting the war.

********

He’s waiting for Shepard in his quarters one day when he returns from a meeting with Hackett. He’s in his dress uniform, his face drawn and tired, and a wave of surprise crosses his face when he sees Garrus.

“Breaking and entering, Garrus?” he asks. “Pretty sure that’s against all number of regulations.”

Garrus snorts. “Been a long time since I cared what C-Sec thought,” he says.

Shepard shakes his head. “Back when you had that giant stick up your ass,” he says. “We’ve come a long way since then.”

“What can I say?” Garrus says. “Guess you’re a bad influence on me.”

“Here for a trip down memory lane, or is there something else you need?” Shepard’s voice is warm, but his eyes- his eyes are distant, like he’s not entirely here.

“You want to tell me what’s wrong?” he asks.

Shepard eyes him. “Nothing’s wrong,” he says.

“Shepard,” he says, a hint of warning in his voice.

“Garrus,” he replies in an identical tone. “I’m fine.”

Garrus reaches out and grabs his arm. “You can’t fool me.”

“Just leave it, Garrus,” he says, brushing him off.

“No,” Garrus says, taking a step forward so he’s in his personal space. “You’ve been…different since the Crucible.”

“Of course I’m different,” he says. “I’m the hero of the galaxy.” It’s his familiar smirk, and his familiar tone, but his eyes are humourless.

Garrus looks at him, considering. “There’s a saying we have, on Palaven,” he says. “Or…had, I suppose.” He sighs. “Leave the knife in if you want to live.”

Shepard rolls his eyes. "Pretty basic stuff, Garrus," he says.

Garrus glares at him. “Maybe, but it’s got a nice truth to it - sometimes, we get so used to living with the knife that we don’t realise that it’ll hurt more when we pull it out.”

Shepard gives him a long, calculating stare. “Is that what you think the problem is?”

“It’s hard to let go,” Garrus says gently. “But it’s okay-”

“No, Garrus, it isn’t!” Shepard explodes. “If I stop, if I let down my guard for one second, the Reapers might break free and all hell will break loose over the galaxy for a second time, and I’ll have to fix it. Again.”

Garrus stares at him with confusion. “What are you talking about?” he says. “The war’s over.”

“It’s never over,” Shepard replies. “Not for me.” He waves a hand above him. “The day the war ended, when the Reapers all suddenly stopped? That was _me_.”

“Yes, you’re the hero of the galaxy,” Garrus says with sarcasm, but Shepard doesn’t react to his attempt at levity.

“No,” he says. “I _stopped_ them. And I’m the only thing stopping them from returning.”

Garrus pauses, a sick feeling spreading through his gut. “What did you do?”

“What I always do,” Shepard says. “What I had to.”

Garrus places a hand cautiously on his shoulder. “Then let me help,” he says. “Just tell me what you need me to do and I’ll-”

“No!” Shepard says, spinning around to throw Garrus’s arm off. “I don’t want to _tell_ you what to do. I’m so tired of-” he stops short, taking a deep breath, and his face shutters, his eyes growing distant once more. “Just leave it,” he says again.

And in that moment, Garrus realises two things. One, he would do anything to ease the burden that Shepard seems so intent on carrying on his shoulders. He would do whatever it takes.

But two: he knows _exactly_ what it will take.

Shepard is still talking. “You can’t help me with- _mmph_!”

His breath shoots out of him as Garrus pushes him back against the wall, his talons at his throat. He looks up at him with surprise and anger.

“Can’t I?” Garrus says, stroking one of his talons along his neck. “Would you like to make a bet?”

His touch is hard enough to signal his intention, but light enough that Shepard can break free if he wants to. He’s half expecting him to throw him off with a laugh or a glare or a punch (or maybe all three). But instead, Shepard just closes his eyes briefly, before opening them again to look at Garrus with the first genuine amusement he’s seen since the night of the Citadel party. “It’s a dangerous thing, to make a bet against me.”

“Hmmm,” Garrus murmurs, dragging his talon along the stubble of his jaw. He likes the way the coarse hairs catch against the smooth surface of his talon, and if the way Shepard swallows heavily is anything to go by, he seems to be enjoying it just as much. “All that ruthless calculus?”

“You said it yourself,” Shepard says. “You wouldn’t want to play poker with me.” He leans forward to run his teeth over Garrus’s mandible, his hand reaching around the back of his neck for his fringe.

Garrus reaches out to grab his wrists, pinning them against the wall. Shepard jerks in his grasp but Garrus holds him firmly, meaning that all Shepard manages to do is buck his hips against him.

They had joked about “blowing off steam” all those years ago, but he had thought Shepard had meant it as a joke - he had thought that he had meant it as a joke himself (even if he had read the material Mordin had forwarded to him, poring over it furtively in the engine room at night). But now, with Shepard pinned beneath his grasp, he finds himself responding to the feel of his body beneath his, supple flesh and taut muscle, impossibly hard and soft at the same time.

He lets out a sharp exhalation and closes his eyes. He slides one of his thighs in between Shepard’s, and feels him surge against him, something hot and hard rubbing along his plates.

He opens his eyes again to check Shepard’s face. He’s smirking at him and bucking against him, but he’s still too calculating, those glowing eyes still too concentrated on his face.

He’s still too much in control.

So Garrus spins him around and shoves him against the wall, one hand on the back of his neck, the other on his hip. He fumbles with the buckle on Shepard’s dress uniform and feels Shepard’s hand reach down to help him. He pauses for a moment, his mind running over the material Mordin had sent him all those years ago.

“Well?” Shepard asks.

Garrus gets slowly to his knees, pulling up Shepard’s jacket, so he can drag his tongue slowly down the line of his spine. “Just lining up my shot,” he says, and feels Shepard shiver as the vibrations from his voice ripple across his skin.

He grabs his thighs, spreads them apart, and, sending a silent prayer that Mordin understood human anatomy, slides his tongue into the hot space between them.

Shepard’s hips jerk in his hands. “Fuck,” he groans. “ _Fuck_.”

Garrus shifts his head a little so he can angle his tongue up and into him. He grips his legs ruthlessly, and he thrusts his tongue until he finds a rhythm that makes Shepard quiver, drinking in every one of his moans.

“Deeper,” Shepard gasps, and Garrus is all too happy to oblige.

He’s so focused that he doesn’t realise that Shepard's hand is reaching back for him until he feels his fingers slide under his fringe. He doesn’t know if Shepard realises that’s an erogenous zone for turians (he suspects he does), and he groans as he feels his plates loosening between his legs. He jerks forwards and accidentally pushes even deeper into Shepard than he meant to, his tongue vibrating with his own pleasure.

Shepard groans, long and low, and his entire body shudders. “Get up here and get in me,” he growls.

Garrus pulls himself back from Shepard's ass. “I thought someone said they weren't going to tell me what to do,” he murmurs, but the thought of burying himself in the warmth of Shepard's body clouds his mind with lust. He stands up and positions himself behind Shepard, licking his hand and stroking his cock a few times.

“Fucking hurry up or I'll have to do it for you,” Shepard mutters, trying to reach around for him.

Garrus pins his arms to the wall. "Promises, promises,” he mutters, then slides himself into him.

He's impossibly tight and impossibly warm, and Garrus takes a deep breath, trying to prevent himself from mindlessly thrusting into him. But when Shepard pushes his hips back against him, Garrus can't help but push back, harder and deeper, and Shepard moans.

“Fuck,” Shepard groans again. “Fucking ridged dicks.”

Garrus pauses for a moment, doubt creeping in through his haze of lust, but Shepard pushes back against him again. "Don't. Fucking. Stop," he snarls.

So Garrus doesn't. He sets a steady rhythm, hard and deep, slamming Shepard up against the wall with every thrust. As Shepard's breath grows increasingly ragged, he can feel his heart beating where his hands grip his wrists. He had always thought that human bodies were so vulnerable, to have their blood pulsing right beneath the surface of their thin skin. But now, with Shepard's blood coursing against his own fingers, he feels awed by the courage it must take to live every day holding your lifeblood in your hands.

And it's that thought that pushes him over the edge. He spills into Shepard with a long, rumbling groan against his ear. Even through his orgasm he can feel Shepard clench down around him, and he comes all over the wall with a gasp.

They stay like that, their breathing loud in the quiet of the cabin Shepard's forehead pressed against the wall, Garrus leaning against his back.

Eventually Garrus takes a step back, his plates tightening back into place. Shepard reaches down to pull his trousers back around his hips, fastening his belt and straightening his uniform. “Thanks, Garrus,” he says.

It’s a dismissal, and Garrus recognises it as such, so he just nods and leaves the room.

It takes a long time for his breath to even out, and even longer for his heart to stop thumping in his chest, but he suspects he would take a thousand lifetimes before he would ever be able to forget the feeling of Shepard’s warm body against his own.

********

So they start…blowing off steam. Shepard comes to him with his eyes wild and his muscles taut with tension, and Garrus shoves him against the wall or bends him over the desk or, one memorable time, takes him on the floor. It’s always hard and it’s always fast and it’s just enough for Shepard to let go of whatever burden he’s placed upon himself, at least for a moment.

It’s enough for Shepard, Garrus thinks, but he's beginning to suspect that it's not enough for him.

It's not that he doesn't _like_ what they're doing - in fact, he likes it more than he would have thought possible, back when he first considered sex with a human. He likes the elasticity of Shepard's skin, the way it holds the imprints of his fingers after he releases his grip. He likes the bruises he leaves on his thighs and his arms, dark marks of possession that lie hidden beneath his uniform. He likes the feeling of the hair on his chest against his talons, and the rough scrape of his stubble against his tongue. Every time they're together he discovers something new about Shepard's body that sets his own body humming with arousal.

It's possible that he has a...thing for humans, but that's not really the point. The point is that it's Shepard's body against his own, and Shepard's skin in his grasp, and Shepard's blood pulsing through the veins he can see in his arms and his neck, can feel against his tongue and his talons.

But that is precisely the problem.

Because as much as he likes what they're doing, he wants more. He wants all number of awful, terrible things: he wants to wake up to the sight of Shepard’s shoulders, to touch him with casual affection, to claim his quarters as his own. He wants to whisper promises in his ear and to murmur endearments in his subvocals.

But he doesn’t do anything of those things, doesn't say anything of those things. The aborted gestures tremble on the edge of his talons, and the swallowed words stick in his throat, sharp and clear like starlight. He can’t take anything more from Shepard, who has already given so much. So instead he just gives him his body: power and strength and whatever Shepard needs to loosen his shackles of self-control.

He thinks that maybe he should have listened to the advice he tried to give Shepard, back when all this began. Because while the knife hurts like hell now, he’s pretty sure that when Shepard decides he’s had enough, the exit wound might just kill him.

********

Of course, it’s only a matter of time before he slips up - after all, he doesn’t have anywhere near the level of Shepard’s control.

They’d fucked over Shepard’s desk, that day, and Shepard had his palms flat on its surface, Garrus's arms wrapped around his chest. As their breathing settles, Garrus gently strokes his talons through the hair on Shepard’s chest.

“Thanks, Garrus,” Shepard says. “You always know exactly what I need.”

But instead of letting him go and moving away, Garrus turns his face inwards to nuzzle his mandibles against his neck.

Shepard freezes in his arms, and Garrus feels a stab of horror twist in his gut. He lets go of Shepard and takes a step back.

Shepard turns to face him, and Garrus braces himself, waiting for him to finally pull the knife out. But Shepard just sighs and runs a hand over his face.

“This isn’t a good idea,” he says.

“Forget it,” Garrus says. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

“I think we do,” he says, that damn calculating gaze fixed on his face. “I owe you that.” He pushes himself off the desk. “When I went up to the Crucible,” he begins, “I was offered a choice. And I made the one that I thought was best.”

“Ruthless calculus, right?” Garrus says.

Shepard gives him a tight-lipped smile. “The Catalyst offered me control, and I took it.”

“Like the Illusive Man?” Garrus asks dubiously.

“Not like the Illusive Man,” Shepard says. “Not exactly.” He sighs again. “Part of me is with the Reapers now - keeping them dormant, keeping them under control.”

“What do you mean, part of you?”

Shepard sighs again. “I can _feel_ it: the version of me that’s up there, like some infinite, eternal AI. I can tell it- I can tell _me_ what to do, if I want to.”

“But you’re not up there,” Garrus says. “You’re here.”

“Am I?” Shepard asks. “The Catalyst said that I would lose everything I have. What if that’s the real Shepard?” he says, gesturing to the ceiling. “What if I’m just another high-tech VI that thinks it’s Commander Shepard?”

“Pretty sure they wouldn’t have programmed a VI to be such a damn martyr,” Garrus mutters. “I know who you are.”

“Well, maybe I don’t,” Shepard snaps. “You were right - I’m not the same any more. It feels…it feels like I’m split in two,” he says. “Like I might only be half a person.”

Garrus pauses. _Ruthless calculus_ , he thinks. “Maybe you've been a half for a long time,” he says.

Shepard stares at him, a flare of anger in his eyes.

Garrus takes a step forward and places his hand on his arm. “Half of a team," he says. "No Shepard without Vakarian, right?”

Shepard lets out a sharp, surprised breath. “That’s terrible, Garrus,” he says, but he doesn’t move away.

“Told you,” Garrus says, and he leans forward to rest his forehead against Shepard’s. “You bring out the worst in me.”

Shepard snorts, but he brings his hand up to rest against Garrus’s cheek.

Garrus leans into the touch. “If you can’t trust yourself, then trust me. You don’t have to do everything alone. Let me watch your back.”

“Just my back?” Shepard says. “I think the real action’s around the other side.”

Garrus groans and shakes his head, but his heart leaps at Shepard’s light tone. "That's not what you thought earlier," he says, running his hand down his back to squeeze his ass. "Are you offering a challenge?"

Shepard pulls back to raise his chin with a smirk. "More like a bet," he says.

He could call his bluff, Garrus thinks, but he won't. He doesn't have much patience for poker these days - it asks for too much control, and control is overrated.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for linnedchir for RMSE 2019, who left me an amazingly detailed letter with lots of brilliant prompts, and I went straight for the xeno porn. More seriously, I combined a few ideas - Shepard struggling post-Control ending, Garrus being the only one to see through his facade, and Garrus's little romantic streak. I am fascinated by the implications of the Control ending and leapt at the chance to explore them here - thanks for the great prompts, and I hope you enjoy the story.
> 
> Some of the dialogue is taken directly (or very closely) from the game itself.
> 
> The title comes from “Chasing Lights” by Ida Mae.


End file.
